Too Wicked to Tame (The Derrings #2)(63)

“Yes, selfish,” Astrid continued. “You might have gulled your grandmother, but not me. I know you’ve deliberately sabotaged every chance for a match.”

Portia gasped. “I wouldn’t say I deliberately—”



“Well, you hardly went out of your way to be appealing.” Astrid nodded briskly, decisively. “If you possessed one shred of responsibility, you would have made a match that benefited the family. Do you think I had a choice? No. Father bade me wed Bertram and I did.” Derision laced this last bit. “And I shall continue to do what duty requires, even if it means tolerating that jackanape’s hands all over my person.”

“You would permit Simon Oliver liberties?” Portia demanded in horror, watching Astrid raise her forgotten teacup to her lips, noticing the slight shake of her hand. She took a sip, blinking her eyes fiercely, as if tears threatened.

The realization dawned, gradual and unwanted—Astrid was more affected than she would have Portia know. Not such an ice queen, perhaps. For the first time, she truly saw Bertram’s wife.

Saw her as woman trying to survive forces beyond her control and cling to what dignity she could. A heart beat beyond that icy exterior, bleeding from wounds of its own. Had Portia never bothered to take a hard look before? To see beyond the outer shell?

Astrid set her cup back down with a clack. Her chest lifted with a sharp breath and her eyes, glittering with resolve, met Portia’s. “Simon Oliver has made his desires clear. Along with gaining entrance into Society, he desires my…company. And I find I’m in no position to refuse.”

She spoke so coldly one would think her impervious, un-bothered to offer up her body as ser vices rendered. Yet Portia had seen the way that hand trembled and knew differently. “I know my duty,” Astrid repeated. “I’ll take care of everything.”

Portia lowered his gaze. Duty. Duty drove her to make such a sacrifice. Could Portia permit her?

Could she stand aside and let Astrid whore herself so that she could enjoy her independence? So she could cling to a dream, a fantasy that her mother would one day return for her?

“Someone has to,” Astrid added. “Especially now that your grandmother is ill.”

Her head snapped up. “Ill?”

“Yes, ill,” Astrid replied, her voice sharp, clipped. “She’s an old woman, Portia. Old women fall ill. Unfortunately, we haven’t the funds to pay for a proper physician. We must appease ourselves with Cook’s home remedies.”

“Where is she now?” Portia demanded, surging to her feet.

“Resting.”

Portia swallowed and blinked back the burn of tears. Tears of shame and self-loathing. Astrid had it about right when she called her selfish. She felt every bit that. And more. A mirror had been held up to her face, and she didn’t like what she saw—a selfish, immature girl who clung to impossible, romantic ideals.

“I’ll do it,” Portia announced with far more bravado than she felt. Her heart fluttered like a wild bird in her chest, panicked at her words, at their significance.



Astrid frowned, her expression dubious. “I don’t understand—”

“I shall wed.”

Astrid stared. It took a full moment for her to respond, and when she did it was in a voice full of mockery and scorn, its sting wholly felt. “Of course you will.”

“I will. You have my word.”

Astrid studied her, from the hem of her gown up to her unblinking gaze. “You’re serious. Now.

After all this time, you’re agreeing to marry. Why?”

Portia looked away and fought to swallow the painful lump that rose to choke her. Her thoughts drifted to Heath. She closed her eyes and the delicious memory of his body pressing into hers surged forth. A memory so achingly real that a burning sob scalded the back of her throat, threatening to spill.

Sighing, she shoved him from her head, her heart, watching yet another dream—the dream of him—spread its wings and take flight. Even during her journey home, she had clung to the thin hope that she would see him again, that he would follow her, begging forgiveness, taking back all the terrible words he had flung at her and mend her bruised heart with sweet words.

Dangerous thinking. The man had brought her nothing but grief.

She had refused his proposal—if what transpired between them in the library could even be deemed a proposal of marriage. That ugly scene still made her face heat. You lifted your skirts for me most willingly—no different than any other prostitute selling herself for the right price. A part of her hoped that he would somehow appear and erase those cruel words. Foolish, she knew.

Words could never be erased. Nor would he ever try to do so. The hard, unforgiving glint in his eyes had attested to that.

Did her pride simply no longer exist?

Portia moved to the window that Astrid had looked out moments ago. There she gathered her resolve, wrapping it tightly about her heart as she stared unseeingly ahead. In time she would forget, her body would eventually cease to yearn for a man who had ravaged her heart and soul.

She touched the glass, cold and lifeless beneath her palm, and willed her heart to grow equally cold, numb. Dead. Lifeless in its own right. Then it could go forth and wed someone for which she felt nothing.

With that sole conviction, she willed Heath from her head…and let go of her other impossible, unattainable dream. Her dream for autonomy, freedom—for a mother’s promise.